Page 71 of These White Lies

My gut twists at the memory. “Sera thought she could handle it herself. Didn’t even tell me what was going on. I only found out she had a problem when a contact at the courthouse tipped me off. Twenty-two and so determined to be independent, she went by herself to file for a restraining order. He was calling. Texting. Threatening her.”

My knuckles are white on the wheel. I can still see the screenshots I forced her to show me. The vile promises of what he’d do to her, and the knowledge that she hadn’t come to me for help, hit me like a punch to the gut. I press the gas a little harder without meaning to, the engine rumbling under the hood.

“What happened?” Elizabeth whispers.

“She ended up in the hospital.”

“The scars…”

“Bastard was waiting in the bushes outside her condo.” I force the words past the knot in my throat. “Threw acid on her. She heard him at the last second and turned away, but…” My teeth grind until my jaw aches. “He still got her.”

For a moment, I’m lost in the past. My blood pounds in my ears as my nose smells again the sharp scent of the antiseptic. I see Sera’s tears when she first woke up and realized what had happened. The look on her face ripping me apart when she insisted on a mirror.

She cried for three days straight until they eventually sedated her. After that, my baby sister disappeared behind a hard, angry shell.

“That’s horrific.” Elizabeth’s voice is unsteady, and her eyes shine with tears.

“Yeah.” My voice comes out gravelly. “And the police didn’t do a damn thing. He comes from a wealthy family, and by the time they questioned him, his lawyer was already there. Even with the restraining order, they couldn’t touch him. He wore a mask and cut the power to disable her security cameras. His brother offered him an alibi, so without any other evidence, the police couldn’t do anything. Aaron was smart enough to hurt her and be able to walk away clean.”

The steering wheel creaks under my grip. The rage is a living thing in my chest.

“What happened to him?”

I don’t look at her. “He got the beating of a lifetime in a parking lot by some masked men. Lucky for him, a patrol car happened upon the scene, and the attackers ran off. He left town a few weeks later. Heard he’s hitting surf spots around the world, but he hasn’t been back to Atlanta or seen his family in person in over a year.”

Elizabeth’s hands rest in her lap, and when she says nothing, I continue. “Life isn’t a fairy tale,” I say, voice low and hard. “The justice system fails people every day. Someone has to step into the breach. Protect the people who don’t have anyone else.”

I wait for it—the recoil, the fear, the judgment. Elizabeth is too smart not to read between the lines. But deep down, I need her to know, to understand that I have no problem crossing every line for the people I love.

When she remains silent, I risk a glance. The sunlight flickers across her face as we pass through another stand of trees, buther expression isn’t what I expect. Elizabeth turns to look at me with a smile, and rests her hand on my thigh.

“I wish I had someone in my corner the way Sera does,” she says softly.

I hold her gaze for a moment. “You do.”

Her fingers curl slightly into my leg, and I feel it all the way through me—a dangerous, inexplicable pull toward her. The pull to which my will to fight is rapidly surrendering.

20

ELIZABETH

The oaks in Savannah’s historic district are enormous and dripping with Spanish moss. Thick limbs arch over the road, blocking a lot of the summer midday sun. Brady parks at the curb about halfway down a narrow, cobble-stone street, lined with homes that look like they are from the set of a period drama. The plaster and brick homes are painted a variety of colors, many decorated with black wrought-iron railings and tiny balconies with window boxes full of flowers.

A tourist group drifts past the SUV, holding plastic carrier bags and sipping cups of iced drinks. Every few feet, they stop and point their phones to take pictures of a distinctive door or house. Brady waits until they pass before he exits the car. He scans the street, his hand brushing briefly over the small of my back. Then he does something that makes my heart turnover.

He holds out his hand.

I stare at it. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to look like a couple,” he says casually. “This street is crawling with camera-happy tourists. Might as well blend in.”

My mental knee-jerk reaction is to object, even though the butterflies in my stomach are flitting happily around. I slide myhand into his. His palm is warm and rough, and he threads his fingers between mine as if we’ve done it a thousand times.

“I’m surprised Keith kept a place here,” I say, to cover the happy thrill in my chest. I scan the row of houses with their pristine shutters and perfect little gardens. “This doesn’t scream booty-call.”

“Not exactly subtle,” Brady agrees.

“Subtle Keith was not. I think that’s why I was so surprised when I caught him cheating. I didn’t think he was capable of hiding it.”